Albuquerque to Amarillo
We drove the next 176 miles in absolute silence (i.e., no ABBA). Then suddenly he hit the brakes, cut across four lanes of traffic, slid down the Tucumcari off-ramp, and skidded to a stop at a Phillips 66 station.
“Be right back,” he said brusquely, hopping out of the Corvette and heading for a phone booth. I suspected he was calling Jennifer and I wasn’t wrong. For two hours I studied his face through the windshield and watched the way he bounded across the asphalt when he was done. He was wearing the same kind of magic I’d been seeing in the mirror all week.
“Is St. Louis on the way to Chicago?” he mumbled, buckling himself in. I couldn’t help grinning at the sheer breathlessness of it all. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.
“Yep.”
“Then you’ve got yourself a ride,” he said. We took off doing about eighty.
Amarillo to St. Louis
(With a brief stop in Commerce, Oklahoma, so we could drop a couple of 7-Eleven flowers in front of the house that Mutt Mantle and his son Mickey Charles had once called home.)
By the book, it was 764 miles. But we had a lot of rehearsing to do. After all, this wasn’t going to be a routine first date for either one of us:
Play it cool. If they find out we can’t stop thinking about them, we’re sunk.
Make it romantic. Restaurants are okay, but pick places we know they’ll like. (Thai for Jennifer, Italian for Craig.)
Keep the reminiscing PG-rated. It’s okay to bring up losing the glass monkey in the snow (Jen) and the mistletoe in August (Craig), but leave the naked stuff out of it. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.
Listen to your heart. The first kiss is going to be one for the books, so wait until it feels right. Then go for it.
Don’t rush things. Falling in love all over again takes work. Face it—you’re not a kid any more. “And I don’t think you’ll ever be a kid again, kiddo.” (Elaine Stritch, Company.)
By the time we’d reached the Gateway Arch and a rainy downtown St. Louis, we had our signals straight. All we needed to do was tie up a couple of panicky loose ends.
“What if Craig doesn’t remember me?”
“Suppose I don’t appeal to Jen any more?”
“Yeah, right,” I grumbled, eyeballing his grin-and-body combo. As I struggled with both a Gap backpack and a Corvette seat belt, he reached across my lap and flipped open the glove compartment.
“Wait a second—I’ve got something for you,” he said, fishing through it nimbly. “Sort of a good luck present.” He came up with ABBA Gold. In two volumes. Turns out that Brandon supervises all of their American recording sessions.
“Wow,” I lied, staring into his two thousand perfect white teeth. Then, on impulse, he leaned over the hand brake and hugged me.
“Thanks, Trav,” he mumbled quietly. “Maybe we’ll make it a double wedding.” Though I was wearing a denim shirt, I could still feel his 50-inch pecs pressing against my 42s.
Jennifer’s got it made. For life.
T:
Sick as it sounds, I miss the smell of Pledge. Just let me know you’re alive. Please? 48 hours without a word—now I know how a parent feels when he sends his 6-year-old to first grade.
G
G:
I found 5135 Kensington Avenue, where Esther and Tootie lived in Meet Me in St. Louis. (It’s actually a vacant lot now, but the Boy Next Door’s house is still there.) While I was taking pictures, I bumped into a young man with gold teeth and a Mohawk. Guess who’d never heard of Judy Garland before?
Since Brandon didn’t drop me off until 4:30, it was too late to track down Craig’s mother this afternoon, so D-day’s tomorrow. Meanwhile I’m staying at a Motel 6 five blocks from Busch Stadium. $89 a night! Is there such thing as a Motel 3?
By the way, I met the woman you’re going to marry. (And I insist.) Her name is A.J. and she owns the restaurant next door. I couldn’t figure out what made her call me Beaver Cleaver until she enumerated the seven times I used “kind of” in the same sentence. Thanks for nothing. Isn’t it your job to spot these character kinks before they get out of hand?!
Oh, yeah—three more stats. She’s our age, she wears James Dean T-shirts, and she drives a black Buick named Robert Mitchum. There didn’t seem to be any point in asking why.
As soon as I get my hands on Craig’s address, I’m out of here. I’ll let you know where I’m headed. Fingers crossed that he doesn’t live in Turkey.
T
T:
If I got rid of all your character kinks, there wouldn’t be anything left but a spleen.
Go back to the part about A.J. Who does she look like?
G
G:
Remember in twelfth grade when we saw Grease and you fell in love with Stockard Channing? Same ballpark.
T
T:
Sigh. Give her my Web link. I’ll be your best friend.
G
G:
I already did and you already are. I need a bigger payoff than that.
T
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
When you have a meeting with the Head Beagle at 9:00 in the morning, there shouldn’t have to be a night before.
—Snoopy
Streaker’s is an eating establishment built to look just like turn-of-the-century St. Louis—gas lamps along the walls, hitching posts in the men’s room, and a railed bar that’s a dead ringer for the Riverboat Saloon. Even the lunch counter could have come right off the MGM back lot—a fact I aggressively pointed out to the future Mrs. Gordon Duboise without stopping to think that since she first took over the restaurant eight years ago, at least 15,612 of Dorothy’s Midwestern friends have probably told her the same thing.
“Know what’s missing?” I mused to A.J., color-coding my peas and carrots in even rows of eight as I eyeballed an authentic 1903 railroad track running around the perimeter of the floor. In reply, she leaned across my Salisbury steak and deliberately dropped an intrepid cherry tomato splat in the middle of my orange-and-green plate arrangement.
“Beaver, so help me God,” she warned, “if you even think ‘Clang, clang, clang, went the trolley’, you’re out of here on your ass.” (Busted!) So I bypassed the customary Vincente Minnelli monologue, left the peas in chaos, and filled her in on my updated Craig itinerary instead. After that, dinner was on the house—despite the fact that it only took me thirty-six minutes to begin irritating the shit out of her (possibly a new gold medal record).
* * *
Streaker’s
Restaurant and Bar
(around the corner from the St. Louis Cardinals)
CUSTOMER COMMENTS
A.J., I didn’t mean to piss you off about the olives. I just thought the bar would look neater if all the pimentos were pointing down.
Do you need any help cleaning up? I’m a little nervous tonight.
Beaver, stop setting the fucking tables. I’m not insured for you. And the customers think you’re an outpatient.
Go back to your hotel. Get into bed. Go to sleep. You’re making me nuts.
* * *
Motel 6 is a terrific place for staring at the ceiling in the dark. Especially when your entire life is hanging in the balance. If you’ve got four quarters, the bed vibrates. Big deal. Craig used to make it do that for free.
What if his mother’s on vacation? What if she won’t tell me where to find him? How do I get her to trust me?!
OPTION 1:
Dr. McKenna, I’ve just gotten over a bad case of strep throat, and I wanted to make sure I wasn’t contagious any more. By the way, how’s Craig?
OPTION 2:
Dr. McKenna, I’ve been having this pain in my abdomen, and I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t appendicitis or—Oh my God! That picture on your desk! I went to school with that guy! He’s your what? You’re kidding! What’s his address?
OPTION 3:
Dr. McKenna, I’m the history p
rofessor you spoke with on the phone and I was hoping—OW! Doctor, my fingers are still in the door!
OPTION 4:
Dr. McKenna, I don’t really have irritable bowel syndrome, I’m just in love with your son. How much do you want for his phone number?
OPTION 5:
Where’s the Rolodex, bitch?
A.J.’s right. I’ve lost my mind. But I’ll go with appendicitis anyway.
G:
Why didn’t somebody tell me she was a gynecologist?! Do you know how it looked?! Nine pregnant women in the waiting room, and I’m up at reception holding my stomach and moaning! “What trimester are you in, sir?” Fuck you, lady!
G, I couldn’t have been more than 15 feet from his address. I could practically smell it. So here’s the plan. Unless one of your Internet harlots lives in St. Louis and can help me out, I’m going to ask A.J. I have an idea.
T
T:
I know where this is going. Don’t.
G
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
* * *
Streaker’s
Restaurant and Bar
(around the corner from the St. Louis Cardinals)
CUSTOMER COMMENTS
A.J., please don’t take this the wrong way, but would you have any strenuous objections to playing the part of my wife? It’d only take half an hour. Just long enough to have a pelvic exam. I can explain if you want me to.
* * *
Apparently, there are fixed limits to A.J.’s sense of romance. I just found them.
My life is over. When I die, they’ll discover me on this bench in the middle of the same downpour, staring at a vacant lot on Kensington Avenue in St. Louis. “Roses are red, John’s name is Truett, Esther’s in love, and we always knew it.” Kiss my ass.
These are the facts: (a) His mother is the only one who knows where he lives; (b) She thinks I’m a serial killer; (c) Unless I grow an ovary, I’ll never get in to see her; and (d) It’s raining on me.
Oh, no. Not another déjà vu….
August 1978. The Mets game was rained out, so we took our hot dogs and each other to Flushing Meadow Park, where we found an empty bandshell next to the Unisphere that was custom-built for making out in the middle of an achingly romantic thunderstorm. Since we were soaked to the skin by then, we pulled off our Mets T-shirts in a single yank. (Not that we really needed the pretense. Being naked with one another—even a little bit—remained a potent narcotic. Fuck pot.) In moments, we were stretched out on the rain-spattered grass and locked together in an embrace so singular in its execution, we’d already applied for a patent.
“Craigy?” I murmured, kissing the top of his head. “How come they call snapdragons ‘snapdragons’?”
“Because ‘snapdragon’ is Chinese for ‘eternal sunshine’,” he replied, not looking up. “Like you.”
“It is?”
“No. But it sure sounded real, didn’t it?” This was his cue to reach for my hand and nod toward the big steel globe in front of us.
“Hey, Smerko?” he asked, pointing at North America. “If I promised you all of that, would you believe me?” Suspecting he was serious and determined to find out for sure, I crinkled my forehead as though I were deliberating in front of Congress.
“I dunno,” I mumbled dubiously. “That’s a lot of work. It’d prob’ly mean we’d have to spend the rest of our lives together.” As soon as the one-dimple thing happened, I knew I’d given him the right answer.
“When do we start?” he grinned.
We start right now, Craigy. Remember what Madame Rose said in Gypsy? “Desperate people do desperate things.”
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
THE PUCKETT/DUBOISE DEBATES
GORDO:
Hello?
TRAVIS:
Gordo?
GORDO:
Travis, where are you? Why are you whispering?
TRAVIS:
I’m in Dr. McKenna’s office. I had to break in.
GORDO:
You what?!
TRAVIS:
How else was I going to get my hands on her Rolodex?
GORDO:
Travis, that’s a felony!
TRAVIS:
No. The cleaning people are here and the door was already open. It’s only a misdemeanor. Now, listen to me. I found Craig. He’s in Saratoga Springs, New York. If I can hitch a ride as far as—
GORDO:
You’re going to call him first—right?
TRAVIS:
Call him? You mean talk to him?
GORDO:
Isn’t that the general idea?
TRAVIS:
What if he figures out who it is? If he remembers me like I remember me, I’m sunk.
GORDO:
Travis, you’re squeaking again.
TRAVIS:
I have to go.
GORDO:
Don’t leave any prints.
TRAVIS:
I’ve already dusted.
FROM THE DESK OF
Gordon Duboise
Pop:
The first half of the outline. Let me know what you think.
ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT
Literary Representatives
LOS ANGELES
NEW YORK
TORONTO
LONDON
Gordon:
There may be a problem on page 6. Are you sure you want to have him break into her office? No one’s that much of a nut ball.
When do I get to find out what happens?
Gordo:
You don’t know me, but I own a restaurant in St. Louis and Travis is in jail. He called me from the police station and asked me to remind you that the freezer needs to be defrosted next week.
It’s probably my fault that he wound up in the clink. I shouldn’t have kicked him out for rearranging my olives or asking me to pose as his wife. Ever had a pelvic exam? It’s like driving a Ferrari through a keyhole. If this doesn’t make any sense, tough shit. Pathologize him yourself.
The arraignment’s at 2:00 A.M. All he needs is somebody to vouch for him (I ought to have my head examined) and $175 for the trespassing fine. That’s if he doesn’t tell them what he was really doing in a gynecologist’s office at midnight. Personally, if I was a judge and he spilled the genuine beans, I’d lock him up for ten to twenty. Maximum security. Anybody who’s willing to hitch three thousand miles after twenty years to find a boy who’s probably forgotten him in the first place is either a public menace or an angel. And so far the evidence is pretty conclusive.
After I spring his ass, he’s sleeping on my living room couch where I can keep an eye on him. Call it a time-out. He can have his motel room back when he learns how to behave.
By the way, your website is pretty unappetizing. Most women already think that men are just penises with support systems. You’re not helping.
A.J. Larkin
A.J.:
Which olive routine did he pull? Taking out the pits or pointing the pimentos down?
He’s only got $837 in traveler’s checks on him (not counting the Neiman-Marcus credit card), but he needs it to find Craig. So I just wired $175 to the Western Union office on Lewis and Clark Boulevard. It’s in your name and they’re open all night.
I think you got the wrong impression from my website. I am a penis with a support system. Didn’t you check out my Speedo pictures while you were there?
Call me as soon as you get Travis home. I don’t care how late it is. I have a date tonight, but since I can’t remember her name we ought to be in and out of bed pretty quick. (Actually, I made that up—but I figure you deserve a run for your money.)
Gordo
P.S. One word of advice before you invite him over: lock up the Pine-Sol.
ST. LOUIS POLICE DEPARTMENT
STATEMENT
Please detail your recollection of the circumstances surrounding your arrest. This statement is inadmissible as evidence unti
l you have signed it where indicated.
Dear Your Honor:
In the event you have issues about sexual orientation, please global-search the name Craig and replace it with Mar or Beth or Heather at your discretion. In any scenario, the points of law remain the same.
Craig and I fell in love with each other when we were kids, but for some reason it didn’t sink in until last week. So I tried to track him down and ran into a brick wall instead. Then I remembered that his mother was a doctor in St. Louis—but when I called her, she didn’t seem to respond well to the fact that I was sleep-deprived and incoherent. That’s why I decided I needed to talk to her in person. But after I got here, I found out she was a gynecologist, so I couldn’t exactly make an appointment with her. Which brings us to the night in question.
While I was pacing the streets deciding whether to jump out a window or hang myself, I passed the Jefferson Medical Center, which is approximately two blocks from my motel. It was then I noticed that the front door was open and the security guard was nowhere to be seen (presumably, he was relieving himself elsewhere). I didn’t intend to enter the premises, but the opportunity was irresistible. It was kind of like when Fanny Brice stuck the pillow under her wedding dress just before the bride number so she’d look pregnant. She didn’t mean to do it, but it was sitting there on the couch practically daring her.